


With a Gun in His Eye and a Blade Shining

by stars28



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Pre-Series, Sam Winchester at Stanford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 10:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8841214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stars28/pseuds/stars28
Summary: John Winchester went to Milton, Iowa to deal with ghost that has killed many women in previous years.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, I know it’s been kinda long time since I posted any Supernatural fanfiction – my brain has been kind of overtaken by Star Wars: The Force Awakens fanfic – so er, I hope this is alright. Kudos and comments are much appreciated!
> 
> Work title credit: Bat Out Of Hell, Meat Loaf.

  _“Nothing is more frightening than a fear you cannot name.”_  
_\- Cornelia Funke._

* * *

** 2nd June 2001. **

John Winchester rolled into Milton, Iowa as the heat was beginning to rise. Even as he’d driven here, knowing that Dean was on a hunt of his own and that Sam had… _gone_ to Stanford, the midnight black truck had soaked in the heat and made it almost unbearably hot within. The only way John had been able to manage the five-hour drive from Minnesota was to have both front windows rolled down, allowing the sticky, warm air to blow in and cool him down somewhat.

Although he hated the June heat – hated any heat really – he’d known when he’d heard about a house in the town where people were dying in increasingly grisly ways that he had to help. So as soon as he’d concluded his previous hunt – a banshee in Elmore – and headed straight here, setting off at eight in the morning as he rang Dean to tell him how their plans had changed. Dean hadn’t appreciated being woken up but it had been necessary, because otherwise, Dean would’ve expected to see him in three days’ time. Still, he had to admit that it had been good to hear from his oldest. The brief phone call held with one hand on the truck’s steering wheel, the other holding his phone to his ear, had reassured the fatherly instinct that still rose whenever he thought of either Dean carrying out his own hunt or Sam at Stanford, _alone_ and _unprotected._ The phone call hadn’t, however, reassured him that Sam was alright in Palto Alto. Sure, he’d dropped by about a month ago, to see if his younger son was alright, but it wasn’t the same as interacting with him. He wasn’t stupid; he knew that some of Dean’s money went to Sam and that his eldest visited Sam as well. Why else would he bother to make sure that their visits didn’t coincide, other than to give both himself and Dean a paper-thin cover that they weren’t worried about the other member of their family?

That wasn’t the point though, John shook his head firmly, and refocused on the tarmac in front of the truck’s big wheels. He glanced at a motel sign, which said _‘Vacancies’_ in the blinking red lights that were typical of a low cost motel, and decided to get himself a room and a head start on the case.

-

That evening, the heat didn’t go down by much and John thought that, with his luck, it would stay above twenty degrees just to spite him. The motel, as he’d predicted, was almost ridiculously low rent for a week. He’d lengthen it if need be but, for now, seven days seemed adequate for him to do the job and get out of Milton. He took a gulp of his whiskey as he looked over the newspaper article which had brought him here in the first place.

It was only a small article on the side of the paper, it didn’t even have a picture. Even so, it was enough for John to think that there was something wrong in the town. There was _something_ going on in this town and he was going to find out what. Then he was going to destroy it.

He finished his glass of whiskey and then went to bed. He was going to need his sleep for this hunt.

* * *

** 3rd June 2001.**

“Thanks darlin’.” He said, smiling wide, as the young waitress put his cooked breakfast on the table. He pushed the black mug of coffee, his journal, the small stack of newspapers and his biro pen to one side so he could eat his breakfast. After picking up his knife and fork, he dug into his breakfast, savouring the greasiness of the sausages. He hadn’t had anything other than the burger he’d eaten at lunchtime yesterday before crashing the previous night, which had been a stupid decision really. Something Dean would undoubtedly do.

The waitress nodded and walked away. The brief, one-sided conversation with her had made John think of how he hadn’t talked to anyone since yesterday lunchtime and even then, all he’d done was order his burger with all the trimmings. Not particularly healthy, he knew, but the way he saw it, he was going to be killed by one of many monsters he hunted well before any heart attack could get him.

Once he’d finished his, admittedly delicious, breakfast and the mug of coffee, John decided it was time for him to do some investigating and left his payment under the empty mug.

-

John sighed and scrubbed an ink-stained hand through his dark hair. Slumping in the driver’s seat of his truck, he wondered why people couldn’t just see what was so _clearly_ in front of them. He glanced down at the scribbled notes he'd taken in the interest of being a 'reporter'.

Cold spots, flickering lights, unexplainable feelings, all before and since the death of Jenny McDonald. Her husband was thinking about moving to be nearer his two kid’s aunt, Jenny's sister, upstate somewhere.

John hoped he did that and didn't end up like himself. He knew he could be a shitty father. It had been made crystal clear by his youngest as he left; _"You're not worth being called Dad, John."_   And that had hurt, more than he cared to admit, but he'd only done it to protect his sons. He didn't think Sam saw it that way though.

Maybe it was better if the general population remained ignorant about the supernatural. If nothing else, it prevented other fathers and mothers from turning into hunters to protect their families. Like he had done.

Shaking himself out of his retrospective thoughts, John put the truck into gear and set off for the local library. He’d noticed on his way into town and knew it wasn’t far from his motel.

-

The Milton public library was barely worth being called a library. It was small and dusty, with only one computer that had a connection to the internet. Despite what Dean assumed, he could use the internet. He just preferred being able to flick through paper copies of birth and death records; he found it easier to deal with the paper rather than the bright or dim screens or computers. Not to mention that the internet connection were, most of the time, unreliable.

But, John reflected, he would need to use the internet for this hunt. He didn’t know much about the history of the house or the former occupants. He sighed quietly as he sat down at the computer, noting how there was a solid inch of dust across the top of the monitor, and waited as it turned on slowly.

John cracked his knuckles, opened his hunting journal at the next clean page, placed his pen on the desk next to the keyboard and began to type everything he knew about Jenny McDonald’s circumstances of death into the search bar.

-

When he walked out of the library, John had a stack of paper on previous deaths in the Grafton House in one hand and his journal in the other. The good news was that, in the five hours he’d spent bent over the computer in the Milton public library, he’d found the probable cause for the previous five strangely similar deaths in Grafton House. All women, all hung without a rope in the second floor front room, all wives with two children and a husband. The bad news however, was that – although the sun had gone down – the temperature hadn’t gone down in the slightest. His t-shirt felt like it was going to be permanently stuck to him.

His next stop was undoubtedly have to be the nearest bar, he thought as he slid into the boiling hot truck. His seat was burning hot.

-

It was blessedly cool in the bar which John had chosen. He wasn’t just here to get a cold drink of beer though, he was also there to see if he could find any more information on Jenny McDonald. There had to be someone around here that thought that Jenny’s death was suspicious. And if there wasn’t, well, he’d have a nice cold beer and go back to his motel. He had a good deal of evidence to suggest that he needed to check out the house and his plan was to check it out once the surviving MacDonald’s had moved out, which was happening on Wednesday.

He ordered his bottle of beer from the bartender amidst the music coming from the jukebox in the corner of the room and the general hubbub of the rest of the patrons. Once he’d paid, John headed over to the side of the room where he had a clear view of both of the exits and settled down with his back against the wall. The laughter echoing from the pool table made him think of his boys when they hustled unsuspecting victims for money. Thinking about his sons, he fished his phone out of his pocket and thumbed down the contacts until he got his youngest son’s name. He looked at the name on the screen for a solid five minutes and then scrolled back up to Dean’s, pressing ring.

His oldest son’s groggy voice answered, “Dad?”

“Hey Dean,” John said, a small smile forming on his face, “Were you asleep?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

He chuckled, typical Dean, “How’s your hunt going?”

“It’s going well – I’ve figured out that it’s a werewolf.”

“Good job Dean.”

It was silent at the other end of the phone and then Dean said, “I’ve gotta go now Dad. I’ll talk to you later?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Bye Dad.”

“Bye Dean.” John said before hanging up. He sighed heavily, unheard in the loudness of the bar, and took a big sip of his beer. He relished the coolness that slipped down his throat, a welcome relief after the heat outside. He reflected that maybe he wanted to call Sammy as well, but that wasn’t going to happen. Sam was a stubborn son of a bitch – a bit like himself actually – and probably wouldn’t pick up his call.

“You new around here?”                                                                        

John looked up from the table and into a pair of blue eyes. He smiled and said, “I am actually.” Maybe this could work _for_ him.

“Found anythin’ interesting yet?” The woman said, titling her head slightly.

“Well, I’ve heard about the death of Jenny MacDonald.” John replied, “Did you know her?”

She looked down at the table, tracing a finger along a faint crack on the wooden table, and mumbled quietly, “Yeah, she – she was a good friend of mine.”

“I’m sorry, I really am. What was she like?”

“She was a great Mom, y’know? Always looked after her kids like they were the best kids in the town, loved ‘em almost to death.” The woman smiled sadly, “And her husband. She loved that man as much as she did the kids. They really did the best for those kids. I-I’m sorry, it’s just…”

“You were a friend of hers, I understand.” He said, “Was there anything unusual about her death?”

“Unusual how?”

“Any cold spots, flickering lights in the house? Anything like that?” John hoped that she’d answer the question and not question it.

“Uhhh…” She quietened for a moment and then said, hesitantly, “Now that I think about it, there were moments when the lights would go out and then come back on.”

It was a ghost, no two ways about it. On the upside, he knew _what_ he was hunting, even if he didn’t know _who_ the ghost was. He needed to get into the house.

He smiled, “Thanks. Can I buy you a drink?”

She shook her head, laughing a little, “No, no. I’m alright. But thanks for offering though.”

John nodded in understanding, taking a swallow of his beer, “Way I was brought up.”

-

After he’d placed his bag on the table and reused his glass from yesterday to have a couple of glass of whiskey, John changed and got in the one queen-sized bed. Before he drifted off to sleep, he hoped that his boys – _both of them dammit_ – were doing ok.

* * *

**7th June 2001.**

It was past midnight as he pulled up to the house. The moonlight shone onto the sidewalk as John got out of his truck; it tipped to the side and the brakes squeaked quietly as he did so. He had his torch in his left jacket pocket and his rock salt gun in his other. He was still unspeakably proud of Dean for coming up with the idea of rock salt shotguns – even now, nearly eight years later. His lock picking kit was in his back pocket of his jeans. He was all set for a night spent searching through an old house for a ghost. With any luck, he’d find something that indicated who the ghost was and maybe even why they were there. Hell, he might even be able to talk to the ghost and it _wouldn’t_ try to kill or maim him.

And pigs might fly, he thought, snorting at the ridiculousness of the idea.

He shook his head quickly before walking quickly across the sidewalk and entering the building. He paused briefly to unpick the lock – which was dodgy anyway – switched his torch on and cast his eyes around the foyer of the house, following the beam of the light. It was done in dark, heavy wood and John had a feeling that he’d like it if there wasn’t a ghost that was killing innocent people like Jenny MacDonald haunting the place. He continued further into the house, scouting out the hallway, the front room, the kitchen and the small utility room adjoined to the kitchen. There was nothing that pointed towards the grisly killing of Jenny. No sign of the ghost either.

Maybe there would be something or _someone_ upstairs. John hoped that there’d be some sort of evidence. It would make his job so much easier.

He began to climb the stairs, listening sharply for any other noises other than the gentle creaking of each step under his weight. There were none, apart from the wind outside, rattling the window panes. He reached the landing and turned right, towards the front of the house, intending to search the front bedrooms first before moving onto the back of the house.

Carefully, John retrieved his gun from his pocket and began to canvas the room to the left of him. Immediately, he was struck by the décor, purple and silver matching the dark wood which was the same as the rest of the house, this was obviously the master bedroom, probably decorated by the late Jenny MacDonald. No wonder her husband had moved; the house undoubtedly had his wife’s personality all over this bedroom and the rest of the house by extension. He’d also bet that fact that having his wife hung from the bedroom celling without any kind of rope would put a bit of a dampener on their family home. It was the same death as previous five deaths. He just hadn’t figured out _who_ was the original death, the one that caused the following six.

There _had_ to be something to at least point him in the right direction.

-

The sun was rising by the time John exited the house. He’d spent the entire night looking for something – _anything_ – to guide him in the right direction and he had squat. Other than he now needed to go back to the library and search for the original owner of the house. It was the one thing that he didn’t do last time, too focused on the past deaths. But first he needed some sleep, he wasn’t as young as he once was. He couldn’t live off coffee alone – unlike Dean – he needed some semblance of sleep before heading to the library again.

He returned his car, clambered in after dumping his shotgun and torch on the backseat, and drove in the direction of the motel.

-

Waking up as his alarm went off was unpleasant to say the very least, John groaned and fought the urge to just roll over and go back to sleep. Instead of doing that, he got up, glancing at the time as he did so – it was eight o’clock, which meant he’d had just over four hours sleep. Which was better than nothing he supposed. He needed coffee before he did anything to do with the case.

He had a quick shower before getting dressed and leaving the motel room for the diner where he’d eaten his breakfast at since arriving here. He’d gotten to know the waitresses, one of them – Leila – was working there over the summer to fund her first month or so of college, and they’d gotten to know his normal breakfast order: a mug of black coffee, bacon and eggs with toast. He thought that Leila was the type of woman Sam would go for.

“Hey Leila,” He said, sliding into the booth nearest the main door, smiling at the red-haired young woman, “My usual yeah?”

“Sure thing.” She replied, noting it down and then leaving to serve some other customers.

He was alright with that. His phone rang, startling him out of his peaceful contemplation about where the body of the original victim was.

“Hello?”

“Dad.”

“Son, are you alright?” John asked, hearing _something_ in his elder son’s voice, but not being sure what it _was._

“I – yeah?”

“You don’t so sure.”

“I am. It’s just…” Dean’s sigh echoed down the phone and John waited patiently for his son to explain, “Someone _died_ from a werewolf attack this morning. I went down to the scene. And I can’t help thinking that it’s all my fault. I’m here trying to stop this bastard from hurting anyone else and then it still does. I mean, why am I here if I can’t save one person?”

“Dean, it’s _not_ your fault that someone else has died – it _isn’t_.” He said, believing in what he was saying but still wishing like hell that he could give his son a hug, “You’re doing the right thing, trying to find the werewolf. You know that.”

He chatted to Dean for a few more minutes and then Dean hung up, sounding happier than when he first called. As Leila set his breakfast and hot coffee down on the table in front of him, it occurred to John that he’d had the same kind of doubts and worries about his first few hunts, hunts where another body was found before he found the monster causing all the pain and worry for the distraught families of the victims.

“Lookin’ deep in thought there John.” Leila said, smiling.

He sighed, taking a welcome sip of the coffee, “Yeah.”

“Anything interesting?” She replied, sliding across the seat to sit opposite him.

“Just…one of my sons. He had a problem, so I tried to fix it without being there, y’know?”

“Is he at college?” Leila asked, titling her head to one side briefly.

“No.” John answered, thinking that college had never _really_ been an option for Dean like it had been for Sam and now he wished that it had been. Mary would’ve wanted it to be. God, he felt guilty. “But my younger son is. Though I haven’t heard from him in a while.”

“You should call your other son,” She suggested, blinking her green eyes at him, “He’d probably want to hear from you.”

Before John could reply, Leila glanced in the direction of the kitchen and jumped up from her seat, saying, “I need to get back to work.” As she walked towards the counter at the front of the café, he carefully looked over in the direction where she’d looked, there was a dark-haired man glaring in the direction of him. Although knowing that presuming things would get him in trouble, John presumed that the man wearing the mucky white apron was Leila’s boss.

Maybe he _would_ call Sam. Or maybe just text him. Though, John wasn’t sure if his youngest son still had the same phone he’s walked out of the motel room with, duffle bag and laptop bag in hand. Even if he did, there was no guarantee that Sam would answer. Either way he’d do it later, after he’d been to the Milton library.

He ate his breakfast, finished his coffee and then left his money, plus tip, on the table. He needed to get back to the library for _more_ research.

-

For the second time since arriving in Milton, Iowa, John was in the library. He was bent over one of the ancient computers, this time searching through the housing records. He couldn’t believe that he’d forgotten to do this vital piece of research. He supposed it was because he’d been so focused on finding other similar deaths to Jenny MacDonald, which was also vital.

However, he could say without a doubt that he’d found the culprit of all the strange deaths. There was a woman who’d lived there for a good thirty years before she discovered that her husband was cheating on her with the gardener. In their marital bed. Which was where, incidentally, she decided to kill herself.

He dusted his hands off, picked up his journal and walked out of the library. He knew where he’d be going tonight.

Or, he amended as he walked out into the sunlight, in the early morning. He needed more sleep before he tackled a very angry ghost.

He never did text Sam.

* * *

** 8th June 2001. **

John was silent as he climbed out of the truck, slipping his shotgun into the waistband of his jeans, and winced as the old car squeaked slightly. Fortunately, the graveyard was deserted, which was to be expected as it was two in the morning. He’d chosen this time for a reason after all. Once he’d retrieved his shovel from the boot, he shut the boot gently, making sure that it didn’t slam and damage the metal or wake someone up and alert them to his presence.

He was alert for any unusual sounds as he made his way through the empty graveyard, walking past gravestones which steadily grew more and more weathered the further he walked into the graveyard. They looked _forgotten about_ , which almost made John glad that he knew he’d be burnt as was the way with hunters. But he didn’t want to think about that, not when he was approaching the gravestone of the reason why young Jenny MacDonald was dead rather than doting on her two sons and husband.

The light of the moon was enough for John to see the gravestone clearly without needing a torch, a fact he was glad for, he had enough to carry without adding a torch into the mix as well. He read the gravestone carefully, not wanting to miss out on any information.

_“Here lies Sarah Kemple, the beloved wife of Jake Kemple.  
May she rest in peace.”_

This woman, John thought as he began to dig the coffin up, was responsible for subsequent half a dozen deaths of innocent women. He needed to salt and burn her before she did any more damage.

-

He staggered through the motel door, banging his elbow on the doorframe as he did. He rubbed it briefly before falling face down on the bed. He knew he should get up and have a shower, but his eyes were rebelling against him, closing before he had the chance to get up.

-

“John, you’re not usually here in the afternoon.” Leila said as he entered the café.

He smiled, shrugging, “I had a late night last night so I needed to get some sleep. Any chance of some coffee and some food?”

“The usual?”

John laughed as he slid across the booth into the corner, “You know me so well.”

He watched Leila go to the kitchen and come back again with his coffee absentmindedly. He blinked slowly as the coffee was put on the table in front of him and Leila sat down opposite him.

“Why were up late last night?”

“Just couldn’t sleep.” John said. It was a lie, but it wasn’t like he could tell a civilian about the monsters that lurked in the dark. He – and Dean – had a job to do without scaring the mass population of America.

“That’s too bad. All my friends keep saying that I need to get used to living off coffee and basically no sleep for when I go to college.”

“They’re probably right.” He wondered if Sam was doing that at Stanford. The sentiment was also the same for hunters when they were on a case.

John’s food came and he began to eat, realising that this was the final time he’d see Leila.

“Y’know, I’m leaving town.” He said, swallowing a mouthful off steaming hot coffee. It was really good coffee.

“Oh no! How come?”

He smiled, “My job here is done. There’s no reason for me to hang around.”

“I think I’m gonna miss you John.”

“Thanks.”

-

He was in his truck, the town of Milton, Iowa in the rear-view mirror. He thought that he’d miss Leila; she’d been a great help, not in regards to the case, but in helping him figure out fatherhood to two adult men. He’d ring Dean when he reached his motel for the night. In the meantime, he thought he have a go at phoning his youngest son.

_“Hey Sammy, it’s me. I don’t know if you even have the same phone you left with or if you changed it, but I thought I’d ring and see if you were doing alright. You don’t have to ring me back. I’d like to hear from you though. I don’t think I’m angry at you anymore. Bye son.”_

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first Supernatural fanfic I’ve posted since January. Shit, that’s a long time between fics. Basically a whole year. I’m sorry.
> 
> EDIT: Yeah, I lost the inspriation for the following chapters, so I'm formatting this into a one-shot. Sorry!


End file.
